UNSUB

by Meg Gardiner

  Deralynn went into a rapid-fire summary of how she’d been on the lookout for this pendant for seven years. “The Prophet didn’t always take souvenirs. But on the theory that what came into his possession could always leave again—if he died, say, or was burgled—I had a continuous search alert for this pendant. I spent I don’t know how many nights monitoring this. When it popped up, I jumped on it.”

  “But you don’t know if it was actually the victim’s.”

  “Same design, dimensions, same workmanship, and the opal chips for eyes . . . Weston, do not let the dog eat your sandwich.”

  Caitlin looked again at Deralynn’s photo. That smile. The glowing face and Rubens figure. A borderline obsessive, a nocturnal data miner who shopped for case mementos on eBay. A busybody who phoned detectives while carpooling with the kids.

  Caitlin said, “Send me any photos and information you have on this pendant.”

  “Soon as I drop the kids at the factory and hose out the van.”

  The information arrived half an hour later: screenshots of the eBay listing for the pendant. By then, Caitlin had dug a photo of Barbara Gertz from the cold case files. Gertz had a devilish smile and a martini in her hand. The pendant hung on a gold chain between her breasts.

  It looked identical to the pendant Deralynn had found on eBay—down to a crescent scratch in the gold of the hummingbird’s wing.

  Caitlin took a slow breath. Three months after the martini photo was taken, the Prophet stabbed Barbara Gertz to death. Her body was discovered on the conveyer at an automatic car wash, her clothing blown off by the drying jets.

  The longer Caitlin compared the two photos of the pendant, the more she became convinced: They were one and the same. She got the ball rolling to obtain the seller’s data from eBay. It would require a court order and could take several days, even with the life-threatening urgency of the case.

  She returned to her computer and read Deralynn Hobbs’s messages, less dismissively this time. And she opened FindtheProphet.com.

  The site was slapdash but deep. There was a timeline of the killings. Pages of photos taken by law enforcement, the press, and civilians. Pages for each of the victims. Those were thorough and respectful. They included interviews with victims’ families.

  And the message boards. Caitlin was stunned. The site had forty-five hundred registered users. Plus who knew how many lurkers. There were a hundred and thirty-four topic threads. Caitlin registered under the screen name WarriorFan and dived in.

  “Suspects.”

  “Are the Killings Random or Does the Prophet Know His Victims?”

  “Rhymes in the messages. Numerology. Astrology. Satanism.”

  “Is the Prophet a Zodiac Wannabe?”

  “Is the Prophet the BTK Killer?”

  “UNSUB Profile. Police Mistakes. Killings that should be attributed to the Prophet.”

  “Composite Drawings—how accurate?”

  “What does the Mercury symbol mean?”

  Some threads had hundreds of responses, with links to everything from New York Times articles to FBI file numbers.

  “Twenty years—where has he been?” The moderator for that thread: D. Hobbs.

  She sat back. Some of these threads were batshit. But many posts were thoughtful and intelligent. Intense, yes. Lord, yes. But well documented.

  This website went so far down the rabbit hole that it might actually be a repository of information that individual law enforcement agencies had never collated. It might even have photos of evidence that had been destroyed or stolen. Deralynn might have a key to the lost world of the case.

  Caitlin saw another discussion topic: “Copycats?” It ran to seven hundred contentious comments.

  She picked up the phone and called Deralynn. “I need to include or exclude the possibility that the new killings are the work of a copycat. You might be able to help.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Of course,” Deralynn said.

  She sounded like she was in the car again, or still. Caitlin heard music and a laugh track. SpongeBob.

  “Could you flag compelling arguments in that discussion thread for me? And if Find the Prophet has pertinent information that’s not online yet, send it.”

  “You got it. And I’ll keep this to myself.”

  “Glad I don’t have to ask.”

  Caitlin heard the sound of a blinker, kids gathering their things, saying, “Bye,” and “Thanks.” Deralynn said, “Be good. I love you.” Doors slammed. Then tires squealed as Deralynn accelerated furiously back into traffic.

  “I’m on it,” she said, and hung up. Caitlin felt like she’d just climbed off a Tilt-A-Whirl.

  She thought of Deralynn and her carload of kids and her bloodhound hunger to find a killer. Laughter and I love you.

  She thought of calling her dad again. For about a nanosecond. After a moment, she picked up the desk phone and called Child Welfare Services.

  “I’m calling about the baby found abandoned during a police raid two nights ago. This is the officer who brought her out of the house.”

  A minute later she felt lighter. Relieved and with a loosening in her chest. The little girl, Baby Doe, had gotten a clean bill of health and was in temporary placement with a foster family.

  The little fighter was safe and warm and being cared for. Yes, she was in psychological peril. Abandoned. But she was in hands that wouldn’t leave her in a crank house full of drugs and knives and gunfire. Caitlin pictured her wondrous wide eyes, held close to her own shoulder.

  “Thank you. That’s good news.”

  Take it when you can get it.

  * * *

  Behind Sequoia High School, past the football practice field, down the hill beyond the avocado orchard, was the concrete flood-control channel that skateboarders called the Drain. The cyclone fence didn’t keep them out, not even on a blustery afternoon after a sad day, the weird vibe. Mr. Ackerman dead. Half a dozen kids were hanging there now that the sky had cleared, taking advantage of the slopes and curves, the culverts and bends—not as good as a half-pipe or empty swimming pool, but their spot—skating and sitting and talking about the freakiness of it all. Substitute teacher in trigonometry, looking like a rabbit in the headlights. Like the classroom was poisoned. News vans on the street outside.

  The Prophet. The actual, no-shit serial killer who carved devil’s horns into his victims.

  They usually liked to take a run from the top of the sloping concrete ramp, ollie onto the bed of the channel, and sweep into the culvert like they were dropping into a wave at Mavericks. Not today. Today they mostly sat and one or two smoked and they all wished they’d worn warmer clothes. The wind made them jumpy.

  Then Kyle Perez climbed to the top of the slope and casually headed down on his board, a long goofy-foot turn to the left. Distracted, or he wouldn’t have hit the seam in the concrete at a bad angle and windmilled off the front. A couple of the guys laughed and clapped as he flailed down the slope. His board slid slick and fast across the bed of the channel and into the culvert.

  Kyle regained control of his stork’s arms and legs and hitched up his jeans. He bowed to the mocking applause and sidled into the culvert to retrieve the board.

  It was dark inside, and dank. His Chuck Taylors squeaked on the concrete. Kyle found his skateboard and kicked the tail so it jumped and he caught it and tucked it under his arm.

  He turned to go and stopped.

  “Guys,” he said.

  His friends kept talking. Kyle leaned toward the curving wall of the culvert and his heart seemed to be talking loudly and the skin on the back of his head went tight like somebody had threaded it with string and pulled.

  “Guys, come see this.”

  Tony and Jaden roused themselves and walked over, shadowed in the culvert entrance.

  “What?” Jaden said.

  Kyle
aimed his smartphone’s flashlight at the wall. The black writing jumped out.

  37.644827, –121.781943

  “Boring graffiti,” Jaden said.

  Kyle arced the flashlight up the curved wall of the culvert so they could see the rest.

  THE COPS CAN’T FIND IT.

  THINK YOU CAN?

  “It’s coordinates. Longitude and latitude,” Kyle said. He Google mapped it. “And it’s right near here.”

  A bite of wind rushed through the culvert. At the far end, where the light turned milky, a shadow passed the exit. Tony shuddered and backed toward the daylight.

  “Dude. Chill. It was just a bird.” Suddenly, Kyle wasn’t the freshman. He was the discoverer. “We have to check this out.”

  “No way.”

  Kyle showed the map on his phone to Jaden, who pulled down his watch cap, breathing heavily.

  “It’s in Silver Creek Park. Tony—you drive.”

  Jaden grabbed his arm. “Don’t you see it?”

  He grabbed Kyle’s phone and aimed the flashlight at the wall. High on the concrete, there it was.

  Kyle stared hard for a second. “We gotta get to the park.”

  10

  Caitlin had her eyes closed and her hands pressed over her earbuds. She had the Prophet’s voice in her head. The voice from twenty-five years back. The original, no-doubt, no-shit voice of Mercury. Talking to the daughter of a victim, spitting venom as she sobbed and begged him to leave her family alone. “But she was a slut. She got what she deserved,” he said.

  She hit PAUSE, acid in her throat. After a second, when her pulse stopped thumping, she heard her desk phone ringing. She pulled out her earbuds like they were electrified.

  When she answered the phone, the clerk said, “You have a visitor.”

  She took a second to gather herself, walked toward the front desk, and heard the excited voice of Deralynn Hobbs. She pulled open the door to the lobby. Deralynn bounded up and grabbed her hand.

  “Detective. It’s so good to meet you.”

  She was short, blocky, and as light on her feet as a beach ball. Her blond hair was sprayed into a messy headful of hedgehog spikes. She wore capris and a sweater the color of a Day-Glo traffic cone. Her eyes were sky-blue, her smile welcoming.

  “This copycat thing. I found suspicious cold cases,” Deralynn said. “One in Miami, ten years ago, and one in Houston, eighteen months back.”

  Caitlin had asked her to flag comments and forward information, not start her own investigation. “Suspicious how?”

  “Couples killed near an equinox.” She raised excited, clenched fists.

  “How near? Dates? Victims’ names? Case numbers and investigating officers?”

  “Got all that. And get this. The victims met through an online dating outfit. Maybe the killer signs up for dating services.”

  Caitlin tried not to sound overtly skeptical. “And does what?”

  Outside, a horn honked. Deralynn leaned toward the door. “Hang on. Or come with.”

  She bustled outside. Caitlin hung back, then thought: Get Deralynn back in her car, and she could leave that much quicker.

  A dusty minivan was parked in a visitors slot. A bumper sticker read, WARNING: I BRAKE FOR OH GOD WHAT DID I JUST RUN OVER? Caitlin felt glad that her instincts had been verified.

  “Maybe he finds out people’s profiles,” Deralynn said. “And their fantasies. We’re talking about a killer whose deepest meaning is found in a fantasy. Then maybe when women reject him, he kills them.”

  “Maybe.”

  It was difficult to hear Deralynn’s voice over the sound of the car horn. In the driver’s seat, a Siberian husky stood with its paws on the wheel. Deralynn opened the door and lugged him off. The horn went silent.

  “Send me the information,” Caitlin said.

  “Right away.” Deralynn held on to the car door. “I know coming here is irregular. But anything I can do to help. Really.”

  She shook hands again, climbed in, and drove away, waving vigorously.

  Glinda, the Good Witch of the Web.

  When Caitlin walked back into the lobby, Paige was biting her thumbnail. She had a FedEx envelope in her hand.

  “For you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Caitlin buzzed through and took it. Paige spun off her chair and followed her as she walked toward her desk, like a guest who’s handed a gift to the birthday girl. Was it really that slow today? Or did Paige just want to hang out in the war room?

  “Is there something else?” Caitlin said.

  “No. Just . . .” Paige shrugged. “You gonna open it?”

  “Yes. Thanks.”

  Paige slowly backed up.

  The envelope was addressed to DETECTIVE HENDRIX. PERSONAL. The station’s address was also written in block capital letters. Caitlin didn’t recognize the sender’s name or address. Caution twitched through her.

  She opened the envelope and a flash drive slid out. There was nothing else inside.

  “Martinez.”

  The other detective glanced up, bald head shining. He shot her the look he might give an annoying little sister who’d interrupted him. Then he saw her face. He came when she beckoned.

  She pointed at the flash drive. “I’m not expecting anything and I don’t recognize the sender. I don’t want to seem skittish, but . . .”

  “You’re not overreacting.”

  She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her desk drawer and snapped them on. Martinez leaned over her keyboard, asked permission, and typed the sender’s address in a search.

  Not found.

  They exchanged a look. She picked up the flash drive. Martinez walked with her to the station’s IT department—a desk in a corner of the main office space—where she logged her credentials into the station’s sterile computer, the machine designated to test unverified files and drives. It wasn’t networked to the rest of the computers in the building or in the sheriff’s office.

  She inserted the drive. The computer scanned it and found no malware. Caitlin opened it.

  A video played.

  The view was dark, unrecognizable. Then came a sound, and it oriented everything.

  It was a moan.

  The image resolved into a moonlit gravel parking lot. Hills were silvery in the background. Oak trees dark and looming. The camera panned, smoothly, like a Hollywood tracking shot.

  “Get Guthrie,” Caitlin said.

  “Yeah.” Martinez watched a second longer, and hustled away.

  Caitlin sat rigid, her hands pressed flat to the desk. On-screen, the moan rose to a cry.

  She saw Stuart Ackerman on the ground, on all fours. He was twenty yards from the camera, dragging himself away from whoever was shooting the video. His feet clicked against the gravel. Arrows protruded from his back.

  The moans were coming from him. “No . . . no, Jesus . . .”

  The camera followed. The cameraman’s pace was calm.

  A band tightened around Caitlin’s chest. Her blood rushed in her ears. Behind her she heard Martinez return with Guthrie, but she couldn’t pull her eyes from the screen.

  “Help.”

  Ackerman’s voice was thin and beyond desperate. The camera lingered, patiently, seeming to frame the scene.

  Then it rushed across the ground toward Ackerman. A crossbow swung into view and as Caitlin realized the camera was a GoPro, probably mounted on the killer’s shoulder, the crossbow aimed at its target. And fired.

  Caitlin jumped. Her gasp was involuntary.

  Martinez said, “Mother of God.”

  The video abruptly jump-cut to an alley. The unseen cameraman’s breathing was slow and heavy. There was street noise. Graffiti was spray-painted on a brick wall: dripping blood o

  The breathing was a presence. It expanded be
yond the computer, suffusing the room. A voice whispered coarsely, “You’re lost, Hendrix. Gone astray in a dark wood. You’ll never find the path.” The screen went black. “But someone will, for punishment awaits . . .”

  Caitlin couldn’t move. Couldn’t turn her head from the screen. But in her peripheral vision, she saw. The entire room was staring. At her.

  11

  From the bus stop, walking through Potrero Hill to the boardinghouse, Mack Hendrix saw his daughter’s weather-beaten SUV roll down the street. Shadows were settling over the neighborhood. The sky was golden edged behind the city’s hills. On the bay, whitecaps churned the water. Caitlin parked, got out, and climbed the steps, not yet seeing him.

  He slowed. He had a newspaper tucked under his arm. Mud-spattered Carhartt boots, sweat-stained cap. Dirt under his nails. Day labor, knocking out forms after a concrete pour for a millionaire’s new house in Pacific Heights.

  Honest labor. Clean sweat. Yet, for a moment, he wanted to turn and walk away. She would eye him, and judge him, and find him worthy. And he wanted none of that.

  He stopped on the sidewalk and watched her climb the long flight of steps to the front door.

  She was lithe and athletic, with height she got from her mother’s people. Her red hair was a fiery crown, tonight pulled back in some messy half ponytail, like she was still eight years old and coming home from soccer practice red cheeked and buzzing. Her steps were urgent.

  That was Caitlin: urgent. Even when she stood bone still and guarded her thoughts and hopes—which was far too much of the time—she was racing inside, heart pumping, mind turning over like a high-revving engine, eyes gulping a scene.

  How had he created something so beautiful and driven?

  The wind bit him. He knew her too well: She was spiky but had a huge heart buried deep. And beneath it all, she was a hunter.

  That part, he knew exactly how he had created. She loved playing games. She loved to win. The hunt thrilled her.

  Winning gave her a goal, a target. Aiming for targets kept her from wandering into her own head, into the thicket of obsession and depression. It kept her from diving into the pit he had dug for her.